The most vicious words in the English language cannot describe the truly execrable quality of this film. It's really, really bad. I mean awful. Every night before I go to sleep, I pray to the Heavens with all my heart, beseeching for my one wish for the human race to someday be granted: that Bruce Lee will rise from the grave, repeatedly kick whoever is responsible for this crime against humanity, and then rest in peace.
This film affords you the unique perspective of a schizophrenic martial arts enthusiast on acid. Footage of what is apparently a world's martial arts championship done in the shadow of Lee's death is spliced with bizarre clips of interviews, Japanese soap operas, and samauri movies, all dubbed mind-bogglingly in order to tell some kind of story about Bruce Lee's life and legend. That it's blatant nonsense is beside the point. It doesn't even make sense! There's nothing remotely coherent about this movie. Sometimes we cut from one set of footage to another in mid-sentence.
The humor value of its sheer awfulness is some compensation. Not much, but some. In the end, though, you're left more confused than you've ever been in your entire life. And after that feeling passes a few months later, it's too late to get your money back.
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